


May I Have This Dance?

by yousquashedit



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yousquashedit/pseuds/yousquashedit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that face. That voice. He knows those eyes. But the warmth in them is missing; he can see with one glance that though he knows those eyes, those eyes don’t know him.</p><p>Kurt was Blaine's date to that fateful Sadie Hawkins dance, the attack leaving Kurt with amnesia. AU Seasons 1-3 Canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blaine has always been a performer. As a child, he would act out elaborate plays. He’d pull the cushions from the couch and pile them around the coffee table, declaring it to be a fort or a castle or a pirate ship. It didn't matter; whatever he decided, it would change at least twice by the end, just like his plot. But his mother would sit in her armchair and watch him tell her a story. She’d smile and clap and claim each was the best play she’d ever seen. Nothing made her prouder than to see the wide smile on his face.

Blaine’s father was never as thrilled with his son’s antics. He loved him, but he could do without the scuffs on the table. After about the millionth jump on the growingly tarnished surface, one of the legs snapped clean off the base, sending a terrified five-year-old toppling over with it. He’d scooped Blaine up in his arms and let him cry it out. But later, as he tried in vain to reattach the broken leg, he couldn't help but mutter, “Cooper was never this much of a handful,” Blaine lingering unbeknownst to him in the doorway. Silent tears crept down his tiny face as he retreated from the living room and back upstairs.

That was what it always boiled down to. Cooper. He was _planned_ and _popular_ and _perfect_. Blaine was the surprise baby his father had never wanted. He needed glasses and liked to sing and dance. Cooper would join him sometimes, but he wasn't so “girly” about it. So Blaine tried. He tried to be more like his brother. Tried to be the son his father wanted. What was acting if not pretending? He pretended to be tough—even when the kids at school picked on him and he felt like crying. He got contacts and cut his clown-curly hair. He memorized football plays instead, saving the performing for school. Blaine pretended to be normal.

Until he _really_ wasn't.

Normal boys fixated on Christina Aguilera’s breasts, not her voice. Normal boys didn't blush at the thought of the locker rooms they’d have to shower in when they got to middle school. Normal boys liked girls. Normal boys didn't go weak at the knees when _Kyle Sanderson_ talked or smiled or breathed in their direction. Until _Kyle Sanderson_ hit Blaine with a dodge ball and called him a wimp at recess. Then _Kyle Sanderson_ was stupid. But Blaine’s heart still hurt every time he passed him on the way to lunch.

Ninth grade changed everything. Blaine liked to pretend that coming out was his choice. He _chose_ to tell his best friend in the hallway before math class, didn't he? He should have known they’d be overheard. Everyone knew before lunch. Blaine kept his head high when an empty milk carton collided with the side of his head. He pretended it didn't hurt when he was shoulder checked into his open locker door. His best friend, the one who held his hand through the jeering and fear, smiled and held his hand for what was becoming a different reason. Blaine smiled back and pretended he wasn't nervous as he asked him to the dance that Saturday. He failed, but he still found himself in the back of his father’s car smiling as the other boy climbed in next to him.

He tried to pretend that what happened in the parking lot was so much different from what happened in that gymnasium. He focused on the warm arms around his shoulders instead of the wide berth the other students gave the two boys dancing near the edge of the dance floor. Tried to pretend that they decided to leave because they were tired and not because a chaperone tapped them on the shoulder and said that they were being inappropriate, even though the straight couple next to them was dancing just as close. His first date was ruined, but it was ruined before three of the guys from Blaine’s gym class found them outside. It was ruined before his clothes were. It was ruined before this boy, barely taller than he was, stood in front of Blaine like a shield. Blaine never was the strong one.

All Blaine could think about was the fact that his date’s hair wasn't supposed to be that dark. And he never would have allowed it to be that sticky. Blaine held his hand, counting each faint beat he could hear with his head pressed to a beautiful boy’s chest. His head spun, like they were still swaying on that dance floor and he wasn't sure if he was upright or not, but he held him. Blaine flinched, clutching him closer as a gruff voice stood above them, yelling. And then he was pulled out of Blaine’s arms. They were moving. And they made Blaine lay down; they made him sleep.

After that day came Blaine’s biggest act of all: he was fine. He had to be fine. Everyone told him that he didn’t, but nothing was normal anymore. He was alone and hurting, though he only needed stitches and tape for his ribs. His parents tiptoed around him. Cooper actually came home to visit him. His father spent so much time at home with him that Blaine had to ask if he still had a job. What’s more was the bonding. “Not now, Blaine,” became “I bought an old car for us to work on together,” and, “I bought us tickets to that game in Cincinnati.”

It was weird.

And he didn’t have anyone to talk to about it all. His best friend was gone. Nobody clarified what “gone” meant exactly, but he didn’t call anymore. Blaine didn’t see him at school because neither of them had set foot there since the incident. He started the year over in private school. He made friends. He continued performing every moment of every day.

He never forgot the feel of that boy’s hand in his. He never could forget. But he could act like he did. Nobody had to know about the old pocket watch he’d bought Blaine at a garage sale when Cooper inherited Grandpa’s. To everyone else, the one he clipped to the pocket of his blazer looked like an heirloom. When asked “Did someone leave that to you?” Blaine didn’t have to lie.

“Yes.”

Blaine Anderson has always been a performer, so it makes sense that he’s headed towards a performance after first period. He’s held back a moment to talk about his paper, but he’s a Dalton man now. He tries not to push his way past the others on the stairs. His pocket watch informs him that, yes, he _is_ late and Wes _will_ kill him. But then a high, voice says “Excuse me,” and Blaine’s turning instinctively on the staircase. And his jaw is dropping because he knows that face. That voice. He knows those eyes. But the warmth in them is missing; he can see with one glance that though he knows those eyes, those eyes don’t know him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kurt doesn’t wake up for over a month. The hard plastic chair is killing his tailbone, but he can’t make himself move from his son’s bedside. “Squeeze my hand, kiddo,” he says. He barely gets the words out before his voice cracks. Kurt doesn’t reply and Burt Hummel’s heart breaks just that much more. He’s had to bury too many family members already. One was too many. He can’t do it again. Not with his little boy. Not with what’s left of his broken little family. Not with what’s left of the love of his life. He can’t. Do. It._

_The other boy—God, he can’t even_ remember _his name—was released after two days. The kid’s father had given him his card and said, “If there’s anything we can do…” It lay in pieces in the hall trashcan. What could be done? Burt prided himself on his ability to take care of Kurt, despite the difficulty of it sometimes. He’d bandaged burns and cuts when Kurt was determined to learn how to cook. He’s fixed bike wheels and spent hours gluing the little sugar bowl from Lizzie’s old tea set back together when Kurt had knocked it off the table. The pieces were too tiny for his fingers and he was sure he was just making it worse at first, but when he’d given it back to Kurt, the hug made the crick in his neck worth it. But Burt couldn’t fix this. There were no witnesses; they hadn’t caught those assholes in the act. There was literally nothing he could do but sit there and hold his hand, begging him to open his eyes._

 _Why did it have to be his son?_ Why Kurt? Why not the other kid? _He felt guilty as soon as he thought it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it back. He’d give anything for Kurt to be okay. Even the other boy, if it meant Kurt could be at home, safe and happy. Then he thought of the tiny woman sobbing next to him over his son’s friend and felt like he’d swallowed something heavy and sour. He put the other boy from his mind and squeezed Kurt’s hand again. Burt prayed to nothing and everything. Forget the kid, he’d give himself. Just let Kurt be okay. Please. Let him be okay._

 _“If anyone’s listening, God, Lizzie,_ anyone _… I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t take him from me.”_

***

“My name’s Blaine,” he says. Kurt’s words catch. Blaine’s heart leaps a little. Of course he remembers. How could he forget?

“Kurt,” Kurt breathes.

Blaine wants to say, “I know, don’t you remember me?”

But Kurt continues, “So, what exactly is going on?” His eyes are cool, not an ounce of recollection. Blaine’s heart deflates, but he powers through it. He’s a showman after all. So what if his—whatever they were—has forgotten about him? He’s well practiced at pretending those kinds of things don’t hurt.

He plasters that charming smile across his face and laughs as he says, “The Warblers.” He goes on about how their performances shut down the school and okay, that isn’t _completely_ true. Kurt raises an eyebrow at him, like he knows that Blaine is exaggerating. Like he used to when Blaine got jump-up-and-down excited about something.

 

_“It’s just a dance, Blaine,” Kurt said, rifling through Blaine’s closet. “The gym will still smell like sweat socks on Saturday. It’s not even a formal—who needs a paisley suit?” He pulled it out to shake at Blaine._

_“Grandma gift.” Blaine explained. Kurt tossed it toward the box by Blaine’s dresser. “Goodwill?”_

_“Recycling. I wouldn’t wish that suit on my worst enemy.” Blaine giggled and bounced a bit on his mattress. “Calm down, you’d swear we were going to Disneyland or something.”_

_“It’s our first dance together,” Blaine said, crossing the room to place his hands on Kurt’s shoulders—he got to do that now—and giving them a soft squeeze. “Like,_ together _-together.”_

_Kurt smiled at that and then groaned. “It will be if we can find you a halfway decent outfit for this thing. So, are you gonna help me or what?”_

 

“So, wait, the glee club here is kind of cool?” _How does he know that they’re— Oh. Competition. He must go to McKinley._ Blaine got another eyebrow raise at his likening the group to rock stars, and then he couldn’t help it. They used to sing for each other all the time. They’d lock themselves away in Blaine’s room and sing until their voices grew hoarse and tired. That would jog his memory, even if Blaine himself didn’t.

“Come on, I know a short cut.” He took Kurt’s hand awkwardly in his and pulled him down the stairs and down the side-hall. Despite the odd angle, it was familiar. _Oh_ , was it familiar. His palm was still just as soft as he remembered, even the slight callousing at the fingertips. But his touch was different. Hesitant. Careful. When he turned around to face him in the doorway, he noticed the easy confidence that the Kurt he knew had always worn had faded. There was a fear in his eyes that _his_ Kurt had never had. Blaine knew that look. Blaine was that look. He adjusted Kurt’s lapel playfully before joining his fellow Warblers in song, letting them fall into step behind him.

The others played to the whole student body. Blaine had eyes only for Kurt. He’d break eye contact when one of the others approached him, but they always wound up back on Kurt. Blaine watched him watch the Warblers perform, but he noticed Kurt’s eyes drifting away to look at the boys around them. His shoulders have grown broader, fill out the tailored jacket that definitely isn’t that of an actual Dalton student. He wouldn’t have fooled anyone. He’s always been a pretty bad liar. Though he probably was _sent_ to spy—Blaine was quickly ruling out it being his decision—the Warblers weren’t the only reason he came.

He finds Wes and David after the performance and they insist upon coming along to talk to him. They don’t know the whole story. Blaine never told them about Kurt when they took him under their wing after his transfer. They don’t get why he’d want to be alone with this boy. He’s just a spy to them, but Blaine insists that it’s more than that. He can feel it. They agree to follow his lead. Kurt insists on changing first, and Blaine goes with him to retrieve his bag, waiting for him outside the bathroom.

When he comes out, Blaine eyes the brooch with a smile at the corner of his mouth. Of course he took time to accessorize. There’s so much about him that hasn’t changed since he knew him. But at the same time, this Kurt was so much different. It shouldn’t surprise Blaine that he’s changed. That he’s taller, broader. He’s always been taller than Blaine, but he’s definitely grown in the last two years. Blaine has too, but apparently he’s always going to be just that much shorter. Kurt is thinner than he remembers, barely any baby fat left on his face. He wonders when it started to fade. He’s dying to know if Kurt’s singing voice has changed at all. Blaine has so many questions. Like how could he just _forget_ it all? But this isn’t the time or place for any of them.

Instead he offers him a latte and is stunned when Kurt seemingly accepts the idea that they’re going to beat him up. He’s been beaten down so heavily since that first time that it no longer surprises him that others wish harm upon him. What happened to that strong boy who stood up for them both? The Kurt he knew wouldn’t have stood for it. He’d have gotten in their faces and demanded at least decency if not respect. This Kurt’s eyes have had that strength beaten out of them. And Blaine wants to help. Kurt helped him once. It’s Blaine’s turn to be the strong one.

So Blaine relegates himself to being Kurt’s rock. He had so much he wanted to know, but Kurt was already dealing with so much. Maybe it’s a good thing that he doesn’t recognize Blaine. He doesn’t need that baggage along with the rest. He walks Kurt to his car and fishes an old Lima Bean receipt to scribble his number onto. “Call me,” Blaine tells him, crossing a small line through the last seven before handing it to Kurt. “Anytime. You don’t have to do this alone, Kurt.”

Kurt gives him a sad smile and a nod, turns his head down as he pulls his phone out to program the number in and send a text Blaine’s way. That’s when Blaine sees it: a thick line running across the left side of Kurt’s neck, just under the hairline. It’s not long, but the light catches it in sharp relief. Blaine gasps. “Did they do that to you?”

Kurt taps his screen once and looks up at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

Blaine’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. “Your neck.”

“Oh, this? No.” Kurt reaches up to run a finger along the scar. “Something happened a couple of years ago before I went to McKinley. I was in the hospital for a while. When I woke up, I had stitches on my neck and a broken arm.”

“A couple years ago…”

“I don’t remember anything about it. I was pretty out of it.”

“Nobody told you what happened?”

“Dad doesn’t like to talk about it. He homeschooled me while I healed and we moved closer to his work so he could get home to me quicker if he needed to.” Blaine’s face paled and Kurt placed a tentative hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Blaine. Really.” Blaine nodded, unseeing. They _did_ do that to him. But Kurt doesn’t know what _they_ Blaine’s talking about. It isn't that Kurt _forgot_. Kurt doesn’t _remember_. He doesn’t remember the attack, he doesn’t remember Blaine. None of it. And maybe he shouldn’t.

 ***

_Amnesia._

_“There’s no saying how long it will last,” the doctor is saying. “His memory may never fully return.”_

_“H-How,” Burt stops, clears his throat. “How much has he lost?”_

_“We can’t say for sure. Possibly one or two years? He knows his age and the year, but the most current events he can name are at least a year old, if not more. He has no recollection of the attack or anything substantial from the last year.”_

_Kurt has been awake for a week and the doctors just keep doing more and more tests. He seems normal most of the time, but Burt can see the changes. Like when he flinches at sudden movements, without realizing he does it. He can do his ninth grade homework like it’s a reflex, but doesn’t remember being in the classes. They release him the following week, as soon as he’s strong enough to walk on his own, but Burt can’t bring himself to tell Kurt exactly what happened. He relegates it to “the accident,” and is relieved when Kurt accepts it. Despite his aggravation with his healing injuries, Kurt’s happy, he’s unburdened by fear. Burt can’t take that away from his son, doesn’t want to put that stress on him. So he shoulders it himself, if only to keep Kurt smiling._

_Burt can’t send him back to that school. He homeschools Kurt for the rest of the semester as they move into another district. The new house is just a few blocks from the tire shop, easier access to Kurt than commuting across town. But Kurt grows restless. He catches up on his schoolwork quickly and then he’s begging Burt to let him go back to school. “I’m fine now. You don’t need to worry about me. It’s just high school, Dad. And it’s just down the street. It’s not like I’m going to Canada.” Burt’s never been able to deny him much._

_After New Year’s, two things happen at once: Kurt’s cast comes off his arm and he starts school at McKinley High._

 ***

Blaine pulls his phone out and replies a smiley face to Kurt’s, “Hi!” text. He couldn’t be there before, but dammit, he’s gonna be there now. “I’ve got to get back,” Kurt says.

Blaine gives his shoulder a soft squeeze. “I’ll be here. Talk to you later?”

“I’ll text you after America’s Next Top Model.”

“Oh. Do it during. I’d love a watching buddy.” Kurt smiles at that and nods before Blaine waves him out of the parking lot. Kurt texts him when he gets home and Blaine gives him blow-by-blow updates of his studying.

Blaine: I’m pretty sure that man would be more attractive with skin.

Kurt: Biology?

Blaine: History. There’s naked skeletons all over the place. I shouldn’t have to see this. I’m only a child.

Blaine: Also, he might be a woman. I remember a thing about ribs.

Kurt: Do your homework, Blaine.

He pauses for an hour to text-watch TV with Kurt. Blaine can't explain just how much he's missed this. Near the end of the new episode, his phone buzzes.

Kurt: I don’t know how I’m going to survive if Jane goes home.

Blaine: Courage.


End file.
